


Mr. Stilinski

by alisvolatpropiis



Series: Mr. Stilinski [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alley Blow Jobs, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Bad Boy Derek, Comeplay, Consensual Underage Sex, Derek is a Tease, Derek with a mohawk, High School Student Derek, M/M, Older Stiles Stilinski, Teacher Stiles, Teacher-Student Relationship, pierced tongue Derek, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:17:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2462912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But he’s never really forgotten Wade or those guys from college, definitely not Brayden, the motorcycle-driving musician who devastated him senior year. He hasn’t forgotten the way a fuck-it-all attitude draws him in like a moth to a flame, speaks to his own rebellious nature that has always manifested as abrasive sarcasm and clever manipulation of rules and half-truths. And even though he’s never really forgotten, he’d thought he’d gotten over the bad boy thing, had grown out of it.</p><p>But then, in his last class on the first day at his new job teaching English at the high school he graduated from fifteen years ago, Derek Hale walks into his classroom and Stiles feels like he's out in the parking lot back in 1995, nearly tripping over his own feet with stunned attraction, immediate and shockingly powerful. His lust is tinged with the familiar but long forgotten thrill needing to get closer to that mysterious cool, compounded infinitely now because this dangerous-looking bad boy <em>is his student.<em></em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Stilinski

**Author's Note:**

> Because I have a deep need for punk-ish Derek being a tease and a cockslut, this happened. And I love teacher Stiles and student Derek, so it seemed like a good combo to put together. Thanks to [annabethlemorte](http://annabethlemorte.tumblr.com/) for inspiring me and reading bits of this as I worked on it.
> 
> Derek is seventeen in this 'verse and by the laws of the state of California, is underage, but all sex is clearly consensual. 
> 
> Also brief references to Derek having past relationships with Jackson and Parrish, and Stiles with OMCs.
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you for continuing to be lovely, kind, inspiring readers!! Hugs to you all. XOXO.

Stiles has always had a thing for bad boys.

It started freshman year of high school when, not long after figuring out that he was gay, he laid eyes on senior Wade Cordova for the first time. He was a flannelled, baggy-jeaned god leaning on the hood of his Mustang in the school parking lot, smoking a cigarette in flagrant violation of the rules, his dark, shoulder-length hair parted down the middle, blue eyes dreamy and brooding as he perfected an aura of apathetic cool, Alice in Chains blasting from the speakers of his car. He was gorgeous and dangerous and Stiles never said a word to him, but he featured heavily in pretty much every sexual and romantic fantasy he had for a good long while.

In college he finally grew out of his awkward gangly adolescent phase and, much to his delight, found himself hooking up with guys who may not have been as hot as Wade Cordova, but who still hypnotized him with their aloofness, their angry eyes and rebellious attitudes, their leather jackets and heavy boots and brash cool.

They were exciting and mysterious and frustrating and it only took falling in love with one of them to make him never want to make that mistake again.

So he got over the bad boy thing. Dated other teachers and a couple of aimless hipsters until he settled down, living contently with Lucas for almost five years. He was the opposite of the mysterious, brooding bad boy type, a glasses-wearing software engineer who never got so much as a stern glance from an authority figure in his entire life, which is part of the reason why Stiles agreed to go out with him in the first place. And even though Stiles ended it when he decided to leave Boulder and come back to Beacon Hills, he did love him, once.

But he’s never really forgotten Wade or those guys from college, definitely not Brayden, the motorcycle-driving musician who devastated him senior year. He hasn’t forgotten the way a fuck-it-all attitude draws him in like a moth to a flame, speaks to his own rebellious nature that has always manifested as abrasive sarcasm and clever manipulation of rules and half-truths. And even though he’s never really forgotten, he’d thought he’d gotten over the bad boy thing, had grown out of it.

But then, in his last class on the first day at his new job teaching English at the high school he graduated from fifteen years ago, Derek Hale walks into his classroom and Stiles feels like he's out in the parking lot back in 1995, nearly tripping over his own feet with stunned attraction, immediate and shockingly powerful. His lust is tinged with the familiar but long forgotten thrill of needing to get closer to that mysterious cool, compounded infinitely now because this dangerous-looking bad boy _is his_ _student_.

_Fuck. Fuck. So much fuck._

Derek Hale doesn’t look like Wade Cordova – he’s somehow even better looking, which is really saying something. But Derek is a classic bad boy, no question about it, all scowl and aura of alluring danger. Derek is more millennial pop-punk where Wade was pure 90s grunge, but many of the accoutrements of bad boy rebellion are timeless: threadbare flannel shirt tied low on the waist, worn leather jacket that looks sexier than it has any right to. Derek even wears a wallet chain, which Stiles thinks might be ironic but he’s not sure. Derek’s jeans are always snug around his stupendous ass and his shirts are tight too, usually vintage classic rock tees, often with cut-off sleeves to show off his smooth skin and impressive biceps.

And even if the kid – that’s right, _kid_ , a senior yes, but seventeen years old, Stiles has to remind himself, often – didn’t rock the persona that he’s never been able to resist, he still would have noticed how unfairly attractive his student is. Derek’s eyes alone – a kaleidoscope of ever-changing jewel tones – are utterly mesmerizing, but the kid’s also blessed in pretty much every way possible: angled cheekbones and hard-lined jaw, straight-edged nose and a wide mouth. Derek’s ink-black hair is shaved close on the sides and up the top into a short mohawk that’s somehow both adorable and sexy as hell. He also has a pretty impressive perpetual five-o’clock shadow that makes him look older than he his, which Stiles tells himself often too. 

He’s been teaching high school for almost ten years now, and he hasn’t felt nervous on the first day of school since his student-teaching days. And he didn’t feel nervous on his first day at Beacon Hills either, until his last period class, AP Lit, when the most attractive man – kid – boy – person – he’s ever seen strolled casually into the classroom just as the bell was ringing, taking a seat in the back row and raising his aggressive eyebrows in clear skepticism at the newest member of the BHHS faculty.

Stiles is well aware that he looks younger than his thirty-three years – he was mistaken for a student by older faculty members embarrassingly often until he was twenty-five – and no matter how hard he tries, his clothes always look a little rumpled, usually stained with coffee. But he has severe, square teacher glasses and always wears a tie on the first day of class and Lydia took him shopping in San Francisco before school started and helped him buy pants and shirts that fit correctly, promising him that they added three to five years to his appearance.

So, no, he doesn’t look that young. But Derek’s stare still makes him _feel_ young, makes him feel all kinds of things he hasn’t felt in a long time, and he can’t even take the time to recover or process it because he has fifteen other seniors staring up at him with expectant eyes, hands poised to start taking notes on his every word.

Except for Derek, of course, who has a notebook and pen out but who seems to be drawing mostly, only occasionally jotting something down, eyebrows heavy and brooding on his unfairly distracting face. When the final bell rings, Stiles smiles in relief, proud that he made it through the class without saying something too ridiculous or staring too long and only losing his train of thought twice. He can totally handle an attractive student like Derek. No problem. No wildly inappropriate crush here.

Derek smiles at him on his way out of class, emerald-eyes locked on his. “Have a good afternoon, Mr. Stilinski,” he says voice surprisingly soft, steel barbell in his tongue peeking through his full lips.

 _Fuck_.

~*~

His father’s injury – a nasty gunshot wound to the shoulder during a domestic violence dispute – had forced him into an early semi-retirement, and Stiles came back to Beacon Hills to look after him.

To be honest, Stiles was looking for an opportunity to make a change in his life, any change. He was happy in Boulder, happy with his job and his relationship – mostly – but he’d been feeling restless…bored for awhile and was too scared of what it meant to really do anything about it but daydream.

And it’s not like he thought returning to his hometown was going to be the exciting the cure to his boredom, probably just the opposite, in fact. But his dad needed him and any change was appealing. Fortunately Lydia, his life-long best friend and head of the BHHS Math and Science department, was terrifying enough to convince the administration to find enough room in the budget to hire another English teacher, and just a month after his dad’s injury Stiles was signing a lease on a small two-bedroom house three blocks from the house he grew up in. 

He broke up with Lucas, who didn’t take it well. Stiles felt like shit about it, but he couldn’t help but feel relieved too, and that’s all he really needed to reassure him, to let him know that he was ready for something...new.

 **~*~**

Stiles can’t really ponder the irony of looking for something new when he’s walking the same hallways he did as a teenager, and not because he’s too busy or because he’s taking care of his dad, but because of Derek fucking Hale.

Derek Hale, something of a legend at BHHS it seems, for scaring teachers, for physical and sexual prowess, for doing pretty much whatever he wants and getting away with it, for out-of-this world hotness. Derek Hale, who even the other teachers gossip about.

“You know his mother is the district attorney,” Mrs. Riggins, the biology teacher, says one morning in the staff lounge when Finstock was talking about catching Derek and Erica Reyes smoking in the parking lot. “He can get away with whatever he wants.”

“I hate to see the Reyes girl get caught up with him. She’s too smart to get pregnant at sixteen.” That’s one of the math teachers Stiles hasn’t learned the name of yet.

“Derek’s gay,” Lydia announces, glancing up from her laptop. “Don’t you remember a couple of years ago when he was suspended for having sex in the locker room with Jackson Whittemore?”

“And the twenty-two year old guy he brought to prom last year,” Finstock adds, not looking up from his crossword puzzle. “I think that kid’s a deputy for your dad now, Stilinski.”

Stiles has to leave then, mumbling an excuse about grading papers, disappearing to the faculty bathroom to splash cold water on his face, trying not think about Derek and the Whittemore kid, and definitely not Derek and Deputy Parrish, the ridiculously hot sheriff’s department trainee that Stiles had wanted to ask out, until he found out how young he was.

Fuck his whole life.

**~*~**

Sometimes Derek shows up to class so obviously stoned Stiles is convinced he’s trying to get caught, but he never reports him.

More than once, Stiles sees him driving away from school in his ridiculous Camaro in the middle of a class period, Vernon Boyd or Erica Reyes often in the passenger seat, cigarettes or joints in their mouths. 

Derek doesn’t talk much in class, but he always does the reading and writes beautiful, insightful essays about the power of literature. Lydia confirms that Derek is an honor-roll student, one of those wickedly smart kids who doesn’t have to work hard to get good grades, and who are usually bored to tears by high school classes.

Derek seems to have found a way to entertain himself, in Stiles’ class at least.

Derek chews his pen caps when he’s thinking, when he’s supposed to be writing silently like the rest of the class. When he catches Stiles watching him, he holds his gaze, bold, something like a challenge in them, tongue slipping out of his mouth to tap that cursed piercing against the bitten plastic, never the first one to look away, always smiling when Stiles starts to blush.

And everyday, he’s the last one of out of class, lingering for just a few minutes, sometimes to talk to him about the other books he’s reading, once mentioning that his mom worked on cases with his dad sometimes, seemingly not at all concerned about his own various illegal activities even though he’s the son of the DA, talking to the son of the sheriff.

And everyday, as he saunters out of the classroom, he says “goodbye, Mr. Stilinski,” playful teasing in his tone that gets under his skin, makes him burn too hot.

And late at night, and then again in the shower in the morning, Stiles can’t help but think about Derek mewling his name like that as he writhes under him, bouncing his perfect ass back to take him deeper, can’t help but think of that pierced tongue flicking across his tip, running down his shaft as he feeds him his cock, of how that pierced tongue might feel in his ass.

 _Fuck_.

~*~

The day after a painfully awkward announcement by Principal Argent reminding students of the strict dress code prohibiting clothes that promote drugs or alcohol, Derek wears a Jack Daniel’s t-shirt, and it’s a testament to his attitude and how much the other teachers are scared of him that he makes it all the way to Stiles’ last period class without being made to turn it inside out, the official policy on dealing with violations. Stiles thinks the whole rule is stupid and he’s not about to waste class time regulating students’ clothes, so he ignores it, easy to do, really, given the fact that Derek has reshaved the sides of his head, making the sharp, elegant contours of his face stand out even more, the luxurious shock of thick, jet-black hair that forms his mohawk longer, practically begging to be pulled.

But then Isaac Lahey, one of Derek’s friends and a total shithead, raises his hand and gestures towards Derek, smiling with too much faux innocence in his Disney eyes. “Mr. Stilinski, Derek’s shirt is making me uncomfortable. I feel strangely compelled to drink alcohol, even though I’m underage.”

Derek snorts and laughs, and a few other kids do too, but they’re all watching, waiting to see what Stiles is going to do. He sighs, wishing he taught in the good old days when it was acceptable to paddle students. “Derek, please go to the bathroom and turn your shirt inside out. It’s against dress code.” He says it firmly, with finality, he hopes, turning to write on the board.

When he looks back at the chorus of laughter that erupts, he sees Derek, standing, shirtless, casually, slowly turning the offending garment inside out. He’s way more cut than any high schooler has the right to be, the hard, chiseled lines of his lean, young body carrying the potential for bigger, rippling bulk, and goddammit, Stiles can’t tear his eyes away, even though he can feel the heat of Derek’s stare, watching him watch.

Derek pulls his shirt back on, offering an insincere, apologetic smile, utterly gorgeous and wildly flirtatious. “I didn’t want to miss anything important, Mr. Stilinski,” he smirks, sliding back into his desk.

**~*~**

There’s no point in denying what he’s doing, even though he tries to, right up to the moment he parks in the dark alley behind Jungle. He had two jack and cokes at home before grabbing his keys in a huff, telling himself he just needed to get out of the house, needed to blow off some steam and forget about Derek.

He’s frustrated, angry, can’t get a fucking _student_ out of his head, and hasn’t felt anyone else’s hands on him in months; he’s had just enough to drink to rationalize a casual, meaningless hook up, just someone to make out with, maybe rub off against in the bathroom. Not really his usual scene, but he’s nearly lust-crazed with thoughts of that boy’s strong, flawless body, that full mouth and knowing eyes.

If he doesn’t get off with another person soon, he might go insane.

The place is surprisingly crowded, but he finds a seat at the bar, turning halfway on his stool to watch the throbbing dance floor. There’s a chaotic shimmer of multi-colored lights flashing wildly, and a smoke machine and some kind of device that dumps rainbow glitter all over the dance floor at random intervals. The music is loud, an obnoxious pulsing beat that started to give him a headache almost as soon as he walked in. Fuck, he just might be too old for this shit.

The double jack and coke he orders helps with all that, as does the cute guy down the bar who keeps making eye contact with him. The guy sends over another drink, and Stiles is getting ready to walk over and talk to him when he looks away one last time to survey the dance floor, gathering his courage.

He almost doesn’t recognize him, but it takes only the quickest of second glances for it to dawn on him that he’s staring at Derek, shirtless, dancing in the middle of a circle of guys, face glowing with pleasure, hips rolling in sinuous, sinful teases. His mohawk is spiky and shiny, skin shining with sweat and sparkling with glitter, tight black jeans slung low on his hips.

Stiles catches his breath when Derek’s eyes land on his. Those jeweled beauties are circled with smudged eyeliner, practically making them glow, even from afar.

He’s captivating _._

The men dancing around him are practically fighting each other off in their attempts to touch him, to grind up on that fucking ass, to get their hands on his young, rippled abs.

At first Stiles thinks he that he must have a hell of a fake ID, but that’s absurd of course – no bouncer at a gay bar is going to turn _that_ away. Boys like Derek are good for business.

Speaking of boys like Derek, he scans the rest of the bar quickly, looking for Derek’s friends, any other students. Even more horrifying than openly lusting after one of his underage students in a club – which he’s absolutely doing, no doubt about it, knows his mouth is hanging open and everything – would be having it witnessed by other students.

He doesn’t see anyone else he recognizes though. It makes sense, actually. Gay or straight, this happy, dancing boy in the middle of a circle of slavering men doesn’t exactly match up with the brooding bad boy image he plays so well at school.

No, this is something Derek does just for himself. Maybe secretly.

Stiles stands, his drink and the guy who bought it for him a distant memory now.

He’s found what he came for.

~*~

It feels like every eye in the bar is on them when Derek extricates himself from his admirers and stalks his way over to where Stiles is standing. He doesn’t say a word to him until he slides up to the bar, gets handed a drink immediately, doesn’t pay for it, of course. Then all of a sudden Derek is there, _right there_ , standing close enough that it’s definitely on purpose, there’s no mistaking what he wants, that he’s made the decision to cross the line they’ve been dancing around for weeks.

“Hi, Mr. Stilinski,” he says, gulping at his beer.

He watches his strong, glittering throat work as he swallows, wonders if he should tell him to call him Stiles. “Derek,” he manages to choke out, and even that feels like an achievement. Derek’s panting, a little breathless from dancing.

A lot of the gazes on them are turning into expressions of anger or open envy as Derek leans closer, the belle of the ball having chosen his partner for the evening. Stiles will be ashamed in the morning at how proud it makes him to be the one he chooses, for all of those men who got hard watching Derek dance to know that he’s the one who’s going to be getting off with him tonight. 

And soon, too, judging by the look in Derek’s eyes.

Derek’s hand on his hip makes his stomach twist and swoop like he hasn’t felt in years, maybe ever, makes his breath come faster, shallower.

He’s not so drunk or overcome with lust yet that he can’t try, pitifully, at least once, to talk himself out of it, to say no to him, even though he knows it’s a lost cause. The decision was made well before he stepped foot in this place. “You’re too young to be here,” he mumbles into his temple when Derek leans into him, bare chest just barely brushing his shirt.

Derek grins, runs his fingers from his hip across his stomach, stopping to tease at the button of his jeans. “Are you going to get me in trouble, Mr. Stilinski?”

~*~

Derek kisses like he’s had a lot of practice, and Stiles doesn’t like the jolt of irritation that that sends through him. Fortunately, he can’t focus on it because Derek’s mouth is on his, demanding and knowing, flicking the barbell in his tongue into Stiles’ mouth like a promise.

Stiles doesn’t know what he wants that promise to be, doesn’t know much of anything other than the fog of arousal and the hot, wet heat of Derek’s mouth, Derek pressing him up against the wall of the dim, crowded hallway leading to the bathroom. He’s stunned, mind taking way longer than usual to catch up with what’s happening, which is ridiculous, really, given just how many times he’s fantasized about getting his hands all over Derek, about putting the boy’s mouth to work.

But his fantasies, vivid as they have been, don’t even come close to how good Derek’s hard, energetic body feels against his, sweat from his chest soaking into his shirt, how his mouth tastes like beer and cigarettes and a hint of strawberry gum. Didn’t come close to the heat he feels curling low and deep when he gets his hands on Derek’s ass, hitching him in closer, meeting his fevered, passionate kiss with everything he’s got. The movement grinds the hard length of Derek’s cock against his, and Derek gasps beautifully into his mouth, hips rutting wildly a few times before he stops, gets control of himself, breaking the kiss to breathe heavily into Stiles’ neck. 

That little loss of his calm control, his teenage body hard and greedy, is the most youthful thing he’s done all night, other than his insistence on calling him _Mr. Stilinski_ in that fucking way of his.

Stiles is drowning in the boy.

Derek is mouthing at his neck, maybe leaving a hickey, and shit, he should, but he can’t bring himself to care. Maybe even likes it, likes knowing that he’ll be able to press his fingers there and feel the ghost of his eager, young mouth when he inevitably jacks off to this memory. 

“Derek,” he mumbles into his ear, the soft buzz of his shaved head tangling with his own stubbled cheek. He’s got just enough self control left to slow down a bit, to make sure this is something Derek really wants. Stiles knows he’s being extraordinarily stupid, but the least he can do is make sure he’s not completely taking advantage of him, even though Derek clearly seems to want this as badly as he does. “Derek, how much have you had to drink?”

He pulls off of his neck with a sticky pop. Yeah, definitely a hickey. His eyes are clear and too-green and wide when he meets Stiles’ gaze, stares too long without speaking, a look that confuses Stiles as much as it urges him on. “I’ve had one and a half beers, Mr. Stilinski.” He smiles like he has a secret, and dammit, Stiles wants to know it. “I want this. Want you,” he adds, rolls his hips slowly, nothing but careful, teasing control now.

“You don’t have to call me that, you know,” he says, answering with his own grinding hips, the slow, hot friction starting to make him dizzier, more urgent. He needs more, soon, needs to get Derek somewhere where he can really get at him. He grabs his hand and stalks down the hallway to the glowing exit sign, pushing the backdoor open into the cold fall air.

They’re in the alley where Stiles parked, so he turns and heads for the Jeep, not far from the door, Derek’s hand still in his. The alley is lit by a couple of flickering streetlights that cast an ethereal yellow-gray glow over everything, and there are a couple of other cars parked nearby but he doesn’t see or hear anyone else. Stiles finally feels like he can breathe, can relax without all of those envious eyes on him.

Decision made, Derek’s enthusiastic consent confirmed, Stiles isn’t going to hold back anymore. He shoves Derek against the driver’s side door of his Jeep, gets his throbbing cock pushed back up against his. “You can call me Stiles,” he mutters, before kissing him, insistent, one hand reaching up to pull at his sweaty mohawk, the other returning to the muscular swell of his ass.

Derek pulls away from the kiss, sticking his tongue out to trace the little metal ball on top along Stiles’ kiss-swollen lips, making him shudder. “But you like it when I call you Mr. Stilinski,” he whispers, not even a question, hands making quick work of the fly of Stiles’ jeans.

Stiles just nods, closes his eyes as if that will help the shame dissipate. It doesn’t, but the hot, eager press of Derek’s hand against him definitely does. Derek purrs into his neck and gives him a few confident, exploratory strokes.

Derek leans back to look at him again, tipping his head down so he has to look up from under his long, fluttering lashes, pretty and sweet and submissive and fully aware of what he’s doing and how it affects Stiles, the devious little shit. When he speaks his voice is soft and pleading, but teasing too, perfectly pitched to crawl under Stiles’ skin and live there, burn him up from the inside out. “Mr. Stilinski, do you want me to suck your cock?”

~*~

Derek’s mouth is insatiable, hot and soft, wet and talented, barbell pushing and teasing and tickling. It feels fucking unreal, so fucking good he lets himself forget how stupid it is that he has his dick in Derek’s mouth without a condom. He can’t help but wonder if this is Derek’s usual thing, unprotected sex with guys he meets at the bar, and the teacher, the concerned adult in him, wants to lecture him about the risks he’s taking. 

He doesn’t. No, he just leans his forearms on the window of the Jeep, curling his body over Derek’s bobbing head, holding back the urge to start thrusting down his throat, panting heavily against the glass. 

Derek said he trusted him, said all kinds of filthy things about wanting to taste him and Stiles just ate it up, let him lick sloppy wet lines up his cock and suckle his balls before swallowing him down. Stiles has never been on the receiving end – or given, for that matter – of such an enthusiastic blowjob, Derek’s pretty mouth stretched wide and groaning like he’s enjoying it as much as Stiles is. And, fuck, the boy knows his way around a cock, has definitely done this before, all those rumors about him proving to be more and more true, and Stiles doesn’t know if that makes him angry or turns him on more.

“You can,” Derek whispers huskily, pulling back to tease the head of his cock with the barbell, sending little jolts of heat rumbling through his aching balls. “You can fuck my mouth, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Derek.” He’s pleading, for what, he doesn't want to know.

“I know you want to. Come on, I can take it, I want it.” Stiles is still leaning over him, arms braced on the Jeep, and he can’t see Derek’s face but he can hear with perfect clarity the needy lust in his voice. “Please, Mr. Stilinski.”

When Derek swallows him back down Stiles gives in, lets his body take what it wants, hips rutting faster and faster, hitting the back of his throat. Stiles leans back, struck with the need to feel his head under his hands, the need to see what those eyes look like when he looks up at him, to finally see that mouth stretched wide and fed. 

It changes the angle and Derek chokes a bit but recovers quickly, keeps his hands firmly planted on Stiles’ hips, encouraging his thrusts. “Look at me,” Stiles orders, voice deep with heat.

Derek does as he's told, eyes impossibly big and dark, shining, watery. Stiles cups his face and wipes his thumbs under them, smudging his eyeliner. His pink cheeks are dusted with glitter and there’s spit and precome dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He looks _used_ , and Stiles wants nothing more than to mark up that face, use him even more.

When his toes start to curl, the heat screaming in his veins, he rocks his hips back far enough to pull out completely, grunting with satisfaction at the thick ribbon of saliva that keeps Derek's mouth connected to the shining head of his cock and stays there until Derek breaks it when he sticks his tongue out, laving at his tip, barbell darting into his slit, hand sliding from his hip and curving around to start jacking him, strokes quick and steady. “You wanna come on my face, don’t you, Mr. Stilinski?"

Stiles tugs on Derek’s mohawk, rough, pulling his head back to make him look him in the eyes again. Something’s starting to shake free and bubble up inside of him, something new and scary and hot and scintillating, and he feels like he’s on fire when Derek blinks up at him, hand still moving quickly on his dick. The torrent of words breaks free, releasing two months of pent up frustration with Derek’s knowing glances and innuendos, his shameless flirting and blatant teasing. He shoves Derek’s mouth towards his balls, pulling at his hair. “Serves you right, you fucking tease. You gorgeous fucking tease with your perfect slutty mouth. You need to be _drenched_ in come, need to be taught a lesson.”

“Oh yeah,” Derek challenges, voice muffled as he nibbles at him. “What lesson are you going to teach me, Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles’ grunting, aching cry echoes off the wet brick of the alley walls as his body splinters with sweltering waves of pleasure, dick sliding along Derek’s bristled, glittering cheek, painting it with thick come. Derek is smiling, the little fucker, tongue darting out to catch a heavy white drip sliding down his chin, smirking like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Stiles hauls him up by the arm and slams him against the Jeep, both of them breathing hard, Stiles with the inside-out rush of orgasm, Derek with his aching need and preening pride. Stiles' fingers are slick with sweat from clutching at Derek’s hair so it takes him a few tries to get the button of his jeans open. The way Derek is kissing him, mouth thick with his taste, surely doesn’t help his concentration either. 

He finally frees the boy’s cock, smiling at how warm and hard he is, how dense and heavy he feels in his hand. Stiles thinks he might be uncut, but he’s rock hard and about to come so he can’t be totally sure. His own pride swells at how close Derek is, at how he’s rocking into Stiles’ damp fist, clutching at his shirt, rubbing his sculpted chest against him. Stiles reaches up to gather his come from Derek’s stubbled cheek, spitting into his palm to add to the slick before taking Derek’s scorching cock back in hand. It only takes a few hard strokes after that, Derek coming with a high-pitched moan, gushing hotly all over Stiles’ shirt.

Derek slumps back against the Jeep, grinning and breathing hard. They stare at each other for awhile, both a little dazed. Finally Stiles moves to wipe his hand on his ruined shirt, but Derek reaches out, grabs him by the wrist. He lifts Stiles’ hand to his swollen lips, slowly licking the come from his fingers, eyes locked on his, playful smirk dancing at the corners of his wet, red mouth.

This kid is probably going to ruin him in every way possible, and it's strangely liberating and deeply terrifying, because in that moment, as they're both letting it sink in, what they've done, eyes locked together in that wet, dirty alley, Stiles welcomes any and all destruction at the hands and mouth and eyes of Derek Hale.

**~*~**

“You need a ride home?” Stiles doesn’t see Derek’s Camaro parked anywhere nearby. He wonders if Derek was planning on going home with someone tonight.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Derek answers, buttoning his jeans. “I had a friend drop me off. Snuck out of the house, so I couldn’t take my car,” he explains, walking over to the passenger side of the Jeep, calm and collected. It’s fucking ridiculous how it makes Stiles feel like he’s in high school all over again, how he swoons internally at just _cool_ Derek is.

Stiles is also kinda dying to know what friend drops him off at a bar and leaves him to find his own way home, but he’s not going to ask. He’s also not going to think about how incredibly easy it would be for Derek to get a ride home from any man in that bar, or the fact that that thought had quite a bit to do with him offering Derek a ride home in the first place, even though it’s another stupid decision on top of the stupidest decision he’s ever made.

When he starts the engine as Derek climbs in, all he can think about is the school policy against teachers driving students in personal vehicles, snorting to himself that _that's_ the rule he’s worried about breaking right now.

He’s going to blame it on Derek, fucking Derek Hale, quintessential bad boy with depth and a sweet smile and a talent for mindblowing blowjobs. Derek fucking Hale, his seventeen year old student who’s sitting shirtless and glittery in his Jeep, giving him directions to his house, at one am, _on a school night_.

“Did you leave your shirt at the bar,” he asks him, cranking up the Jeep’s shitty heater.

“I wasn’t wearing one when I got there,” Derek admits, smiling.

Stiles raises his eyebrows at him, shaking his head. “You’re…something else.”

Derek smiles and shrugs. “Easier to get in without an ID that way.” He rubs a hand over his arm absently, like he’s cold.

Stiles reaches back and grapples with the piles of books and gym clothes in the back seat, hand finally finding his favorite purple hoodie, the one Lydia says he’s no longer allowed to wear in public. He tosses it in Derek’s lap before he can change his mind. “Here. It’s cold tonight.”

Derek grunts a quiet thank you and Stiles adds giving his clothes to him to the growing list of incredibly stupid Derek-based decisions he’s made. 

They don’t talk for rest of the drive, other than Derek’s directions, guiding him to a county road that goes through the middle of the preserve, telling him to pull over after about a mile, stopping at the bottom of a long driveway. They’re far enough way that Stiles can’t see much, but he can tell that the house is big, really big, nestled back on a hill amongst a large copse of trees. “I’ll walk from here,” Derek says, hand resting on the door handle.

There are about a thousand things Stiles wants to say to him, but he’s starting to come more fully out of his sex daze, reality settling in as he stares at the distant porch light of Derek’s house, imagines that his – apparently very wealthy – parents are probably asleep, have no idea that their teenage son is sitting in a ratty old Jeep at the bottom of their driveway, face flecked with glitter and the dried come of his thirty-three year old English teacher.

“Derek, wait. What happened tonight –“

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. There’s really a lot more he should say, but it’s late and he’s tired and that’s all he needs from Derek right now, hopes to god that trusting him to keep this quiet isn’t another stupid decision. “Thanks.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Derek says with a wink, opening the door and hopping out. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says, standing at the open door, face sparkling in the dim overhead light. He starts to unzip the hoodie, slowly, like he wants Stiles to watch him reveal himself, _which he does_ , goddammit. Derek ducks his head under the doorframe so he can lock his eyes on Stiles’, pulling his gaze away from his chest. Derek's biting his bottom lip and everything, the little shit.

“Keep it,” Stiles blurts, just as he’s about to shrug it off. “It’s cold, and you have to walk a ways. Keep it.”

Derek seems genuinely surprised, façade of seduction all gone. It makes him look and sound his age. “Thanks, Mr. Stilinski.”

**~*~**

It’s strange, how normal he feels the next day. It’s not that he’s able to put Derek or the night before out of his mind – on the contrary, in fact. It’s on his mind all day, but instead of distracting him, it just settles there next to everything else. Sure, when he really lets himself think about it on his lunch break, eating cold pizza in the lounge with Finstock, he zones out for a solid ten minutes remembering the feel of Derek’s mouth, tips of his fingers lingering on the hickey barely hidden under his collar. Finstock doesn’t notice at all, which is one of the reasons Stiles likes eating lunch with the guy. He’s usually just as caught up in his own manic thoughts as Stiles is. 

He’s able to get through his day without losing himself completely in lust or guilt or paranoia of being found out, and by last period, when Derek saunters into his classroom, not even looking his direction, laughing at something Erica is saying, it feels like the whole thing was just a vivid fantasy. A gorgeous, unbelievably hot fantasy, but that's it. It's like it never happened, really.

He gets through last period just fine, for once Derek not actively trying to tease him, and Stiles is feeling good about leaving his terrible lapse in judgment behind him just as the bell rings and he dismisses class, students dropping their homework on his desk as they file out.

Derek’s the last to leave, as usual, taking his time putting his stuff into his bag before sauntering down the aisle towards Stiles’ desk. “Have a good afternoon, Mr. Stilinski,” he says, dropping his homework onto the pile, grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

It leaves Stiles a little breathless, but that’s just because when he sees Derek up close he notices the small smudges of liner still smeared under his eyes, like Derek did a terrible job of cleaning himself up last night, or maybe didn’t bother at all.

“You too, Derek,” he manages to choke out when he’s almost out the door, control slipping for the first time all day.

It takes a while to get it back, especially when he finally looks down at the stack of papers on his desk and sees Derek’s essay on _Cat’s Cradle_ , top page dusted with rainbow glitter.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [deleted-scenes](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr! Come hang out and say hello! I promise I don't bite (unless you want me to). RAWR
> 
>  
> 
> Update: I wrote a little [sequely drabble over on the Tumbles](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/post/100241117657/are-you-making-mr-stilinski-a-series-are-you-are) that will likely end up in part two....


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